JUNE 2013

The Editorby Chuck Joy

the editor hated late, being late late was evil for the editor and he was at least at risk yet he noted a flaw in the mix he would turn the horns down turn the voices up

inside the next building, an orange hut the international poet Lakshmi Uhuru posing relaxedly, improvising a few lines her hawk’s eyes scanning the horde of photographers and poetry fans

enter the editor, shoving his way to a place near a table thinking, Asia is a crowded subway car studying the poet’s physical presence, emphatically female all curves, a concert of flesh artfully draped with belted silk the editor had not one suggestion

a squat cat passed him a sheaf of pages stapled, the text to her poems a disaster various fonts, off-plumb printing infrequent misspellings laughable choices for enjambment the best to be said, all was legible

but when she spoke the effect was hypnotic her voice an instrument, playing its few notes in marvelous complexity, amplitude, intonation subtle shading, the editor saw visions brown swoops and black smudges, the wall of a cave

he recognized the language as English the editor did, although some parts seemed Mandarin and another part Swahili if she talks long enough, the editor thought I could learn any language

A VillanelleBy Geoffrey A. Landis

I'm in the middle of a villanelleIt should be saucy, short and sweetBut it's not going very well

Trying to write is giving me hellWhat words will make my thoughts concrete?I'm in the middle of a villanelle

It's prying a pearl from an oyster shellTo find a line I can repeatAnd I don't think it's going well

Will it be a classic? I just can't tellI just won't know till it's completeI'm in the middle of a villanelle

I don't care if it's good, I just want it to sellIf I have to hawk it on the streetBut I think it's going not so well

The poem should ring like a carillon bellIt should be good enough to eatI'm in the middle of a villanelleAnd I don't think it's going very well.

*previously published in MagnaPoets, Jan 2010

Untitledby Christopher Gretkus

Imagine that the entire energy and mass of Universe is concentrated at a very little single point. Billions of galaxies and nebulas, millions of magnificently developed civilisations. Imagine the universe, embedded in a super heavy grain of sand. Imagine yourself holding it under your tongue. You can swallow it. You can worship it. You can scatter it all over the table. You can duplicate it like a molecular chip. My name is Bethlehem-man. You can call me a space-time merchandiser. The Californian people are so nice to me. I am what has not come. will come, is coming...

Rendezvousby Joan McNerney

That was the name of a paint can from J&M Hardware.

With sweat lingering on her face, she colored her room.

Tinted now like insides of ripe plums, like perfect grapes.

When the sizzling lemon sun dropped from heaven...night became moist and black.

Lotus screech relentlessly for water always wanting more more more water.

Closing her eyes, remembering him now tasting the feast of his smile.

Humilityby Mandy Buffington

When was the last time you were humble?When was the last time you let another take credit?When was the last time you didn’t care about the glory?When was the last time you decided that you didn’t want the credit?To just give because you wanted to,And not to show off?To give of yourself,And not just because it is part of your beliefs?To donate your time to others,Just because you wanted to help another?And not for any recognition,And not for any pats on the back,And not for any glory you could have been given,When was the last time you gave money?To those that are in need?To those that are on the street?To those that have nothing,And are just trying to scrap by?When was the last time you gave a meal?To someone who was hungry?To someone who had children to feed,And had nothing to give?To just give something to someone,Without looking for any honor?Any respect?Or even a thank you?When did you just decide to be humble?And to give out of the abundance you have been given?To show humility because you wanted to?Because you felt it in your heart and soul?Because it is part of your being?Because there was no other reason?To be humble just because you can,And because you want to be different,Be different than anyone else.

Poehemian: a poet or artist who does not adhere to the norm; a bohemian of poetry or art; a poet or artist who is quite possibly (subconsciously or consciously) inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.

"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night." -Edgar Allan Poe

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant." -Edgar Allan Poe

"The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world." -Edgar Allan Poe

"The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'" -Edgar Allan Poe

"It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe

"There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm." -Edgar Allan Poe

"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed." -Edgar Allan Poe

"It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute." -Edgar Allan Poe

"And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams, Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Can it be fancied that Deity ever vindictively, Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it?"

"The most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy." -Edgar Allan Poe

"The customs of the world are so many conventional follies." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been." -Edgar Allan Poe

"Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence— whether much that is glorious— whether all that is profound— does not spring from disease of thought— from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect." -Edgar Allan Poe

"The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,—not the material of my every-day existence-- but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself." -Edgar Allan Poe